


Turn to What Comes After

by Laura Kaye (laurakaye)



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), XCOM (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adorkable Phil Coulson, Alien Invasion, Alternate Universe - Fusion, BAMF Clint Barton, Cameos from many Avengers, Can it still be a meet-cute if concussion grenades are involved?, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Deaf Clint Barton, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluffy Ending, Handwavey Future Technology, Hurt Clint Barton, I mean the ship is called the Avenger what was I supposed to do not cross it over?, I say yes, Injury Recovery, M/M, Meet-Cute, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Clint Barton, Protective Natasha Romanov, Resistance, Sign Language, What If The Avengers Were Fighting On The Avenger in XCOM, XCOM 2 fusion AU, when Clint is involved anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 01:05:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15919815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurakaye/pseuds/Laura%20Kaye
Summary: When the aliens found his Resistance cell, Clint thought that everything was over. But after some mortal peril and a few grenades, he realized it was just beginning.A science fiction Marvel AU.





	Turn to What Comes After

**Author's Note:**

> This all happened because I was playing XCOM 2 and customizing all my soldiers to look like Marvel characters. Look, game, you can't allow me to create a Clint and Phil in your game AND make them become "bondmates" so that they give each other combat bonuses and expect me to NOT write a fanfic. I mean, come on.
> 
> Many thanks to Kathar and mrwonderwoman for beta and also patience while I babbled about my video game fusion AU when I was supposed to be working on other things. :)
> 
> Enjoy!

**February 3, 2035**

Clint wiped the sweat from his eyes with a swipe of his sleeve and raised the scope of his rifle again. It was hard to see through the billowing clouds of smoke, and his ears couldn’t be trusted at all; he’d lost his aids to an ADVENT stun baton a few weeks back, and they hadn’t been able to scrounge up the tech to repair them yet.

Just as well, probably. He doubted there was much of tactical value to hear beyond the roar of flames and the splintering of wood and the screaming.

He’d heard enough of _that_ to last a lifetime.

Movement in the scope—the earth heaving, just outside the tin-sided shack that housed their little infirmary. _Shit._

Doc Hilliard was still in there. She shouldn’t be—that wasn’t the plan, she’d been supposed to evacuate with any of the patients who could walk and leave the rest—but Clint had seen her sending patients out the back, then shutting herself back inside. She still had patients there, and she wouldn’t leave them. They might even have a chance, if they barricaded themselves in and stayed quiet. Sometimes the aliens didn’t burn everything, if they thought all the people were gone.

Clint evened his breath, his focus narrowing on the spot of churning earth. As the alien skittered up out of the ground he squeezed the trigger, scattering its corrosive innards all over what had been their medicinal herb garden.

(Those fuckers, those _fuckers,_ they’d all worked so hard on that garden. It had taken them all day to till the ground, to get the plants in, precious seedlings he and Natasha had spent days babying along in the back of their one working pickup, scavenged from a farm that was far enough away from the ruins of Des Moines for the plants to be safe. Nat had grinned at him, so proud at doing something that would heal instead of hurt. And now it was ruined, everything was—and Clint didn’t know where Natasha was, he hadn’t seen her body but he couldn’t _find her_ —)

They always patrolled together, but today he’d been out fixing a patch of broken fencing. She’d laughed at him, said he should know she could walk a perimeter without him to hold her hand, so he’d gone on ahead. 

Then he’d heard the alarm, loud enough for even him to notice.

He’d dropped his tools and _run_ , forgetting evacuation plans and emergency fallbacks and everything else in a surge of bitter panic. He’d promised her, he’d _promised_ her he’d never let them take her.

He’d passed a lot of bodies on his way in, holes burned right through their makeshift armor, still glowing at the edges from the plasma beams. Friends, neighbors. Some almost like family. But none of them had bright red hair, so Clint had kept running, ducking shots and scrambling for cover. He didn’t have time to mourn, not when there might still be people to save. Not when he could still fight.

He’d made his way to the top of the crumbling old church steeple. It was too rickety for anyone else to climb, so he’d left supplies there to set up an emergency nest; now, his thighs ached from crouching on the narrow strip of floor where the church bell used to hang, peering through the scope to pick off as many attackers as he could. 

He’d done enough missions to know how to get them, too, who to target first; the ones with the energy shields, the ones with the flamethrowers—he’d got one in the fuel tank and blown up the whole patrol—and especially the naked little Roswell-looking bastards who liked to control your mind.

Clint always killed those bastards first, before they had a chance to reach into someone’s head with that energy that scraped and skittered, before they could make anyone turn their gun on their allies, their _family_ , screaming for it to stop, to let go, to get _out_ —

Clint always killed them first.

The tower shook and swayed beneath him, and he clung to his rifle with one hand and the windowsill with the other, waiting to see if he was going to die in a building collapse today instead of at the business end of an ADVENT plasma gun. When things settled—creaking alarmingly but holding for the time being—he looked out over the burning camp again, trying to figure out a plan.

There were still people out there fighting; he could see the bright acid-green plasma beams as the aliens fired back. Clint didn’t know how many were left, or who, but he couldn’t leave as long as there was someone, as long as there was a chance Natasha was still there, still needed him.

A flash of metal caught his eye through the trees, and he trained his scope in that direction.

Oh, shit. They’d brought in a MEC.

Whoever was left wouldn’t last long once that armored mechanical bastard got going, breaking down buildings under its legs and picking people off with grenade launchers and cannon fire. Trickshot, when he’d still been around, had said he’d seen a pod of two MECs chew through a whole squad of soldiers.

Clint didn’t have any armor-piercing ammo or grenades, no EMP charges, nothing that could disable the electronics or get through the armor. His only option was to try to concentrate fire on one of the legs—sometimes, if you could catch the joint just right, you could either blow the leg off or make it seize up, make it topple so you could get around out of range of its guns and chip away at it. Clint had the aim to do it; he’d done it before, though not alone. The only question would be if Clint could take the MEC down before ADVENT traced back the trajectory of the shots and found him. He didn’t have anyone watching his back, this time.

He shoved a fresh clip in his rifle and took a deep breath, forcing himself to think it through. They hadn’t found him yet; he could maybe still get away, if he went quiet and got lucky. He could go for one of the emergency caches and join anyone else who’d made it out of town.

But if Natasha wasn’t there—and he didn’t think she would be, not the way she felt about the aliens—Clint might never see her again, might never know if she made it out alive. 

He’d promised her that as long as he could pick up a gun, she’d never be left to fight them alone, ever again. And he knew her well enough to know that as long as there were people still there, she’d be fighting.

Maybe they could drive them off. Maybe they couldn’t. But if he was going down today, he’d leave a hell of a hole in their squad on his way. Maybe he could at least give the others a chance.

He zoomed his scope in on the MEC, looking for the little hollow in the back of the joint, the place that… there. 

Exhale, long and slow, and… fire. Fire. The back of the joint sparked, and the machine jerked midstep as the joint locked up, teetering for a second then crashing to the ground.

Good. Good. If Clint could just keep going—if he could hit the grenade tubes at the back, maybe he could blow the thing before it did any more damage, and maybe the aliens would be distracted enough by the explosion that the survivors could pick them off or get clear of the settlement.

He reloaded, then buried the whole clip in the back of the fallen MEC; finally, he punched through the reinforced tubes, and the thing exploded as he detonated its payload of grenades.

It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Nothing could ever be enough to make up for everything they’d done, for the ruined cities and the bioweapons, for the dead and those who survived them, for Barney’s leg and Clint’s nightmares and the haunted look in Natasha’s eyes. 

But it was something.

A beam of green plasma burst through the wall, narrowly missing his head and burning a line across his cheek with the heat of its passing. Shit, shit, shit! He threw himself flat on the tiny ledge as another blast seared the air. There must have been another pod, dammit! He’d been so focused on the MEC he hadn’t caught them coming around the other side, but they’d found him, and if he didn’t move fast his sniper nest was going to become a death trap.

He checked his ammo, shoved his last few clips into his pockets, then grabbed the line and slid down the hollow inside of the tower, twisting in the air to avoid the jagged ruins of the stairs. 

He slipped through a hole in the wall and ran to a monument, one of the biggest things still left standing in the old cemetery that backed up to the church. He pressed up against the cold stone, trying to see through the smoke and find the enemy while still keeping an eye on his flank. He wished he still had his aids, even as spotty as they’d been in the last few years. Between The aliens’ strange reverberant language, the clanking of their MECs, and the high-pitched sizzle of their energy weapons, they weren’t exactly subtle in the field.

Not like you needed subtlety when you had overwhelming force on your side, Clint supposed.

Something moved in the corner of his eye, and he flung himself behind another tombstone just in time to miss the blast. Shit, that was from the other side! He was cut off, penned between two pods. He dropped to his belly in the tall grass and crawled away to shelter behind a tombstone. 

At least the smoke gave a little cover.

He could see the second pod, coming around the corner of the church. He used the last two bullets in his rifle, taking down two troopers with shots to the small gap between their armor and their helmets. The ADVENT soldiers weren’t human—well, they weren’t human _anymore,_ not with what the aliens had done to them—but a bullet through the neck still made them just as dead.

He dropped the empty rifle and crawled from gravestone to gravestone, cracking off shots with his little pistol whenever he could. His eyes stung with smoke and grit, but he still hit his targets. 

He wasn’t even sure what he was trying to do, anymore. The settlement was gone; even if it didn’t burn completely, it wasn’t safe to stay there any longer now that the location was compromised. But he hadn’t fought this long, done this much, to give up now.

They were starting to close in, their shots slowly driving him where they wanted him, into the closing jaws of a trap he could see but couldn’t see how to avoid.

A flash of light off metal caught his eye, and he dove for another cover spot. The heat of the plasma beam seared across his shoulders, and he bit his tongue bloody trying to hold back a cry as he pulled himself behind a broken crypt. His back was a sheet of agony, and he swallowed down a rush of sour spit, trying not to vomit from a combination of the pain and the charred-meat smell of the wound.

Okay. This looked bad.

There had to be a way out of this, there had to. Think, Barton. This cat-and-mouse game among the tombstones was keeping him alive for now, but there was only one of him and at least eight more of them. They could harry him around until he dropped from exhaustion and pick him off at their leisure; he needed to get away, find a safe spot to catch his breath and bandage his wound, then maybe once they’d lost him he could double back and pick them off from the shadows. It’d be getting dark soon.

There was a hide that he and Nat had made, about a quarter-mile away from the old church. If he could go back the way he’d come, make them think he was still in the graveyard but slip out the other side of the building, he might be able to make it. Nat might even head there, too, if she was still around.

He turned, ready to try to head back toward the church, when he felt the ground shake with an unmistakeable pattern. His heart lurched as he turned, dread curdling in his guts. 

He knew what he was going to see.

The top of the dark-gray MEC was visible even over the roof of the church, and the red tracing laser swept over the outline of the building. Clint pressed himself into the most sheltered part of the crypt, contorting his back to try to keep the plasma burn from touching the stone, and closed his eyes. Once the web of lasers started, it didn’t take long before—

The shudder of the explosion shook the crypt, and when Clint opened his eyes the church was a pile of rubble, the big MEC towering over it on two-story-tall legs, sweeping the area with its lasers.

Well. That was the escape plan shot to shit, then. Clint should have realized they wouldn’t have left it to chance. Barney was gonna kick his ass for being so careless when he saw—

He broke off the train of thought, choking down a sob. He wasn’t going to see Barney again, or get climbed on by the kids, or hear Laura sing. He’d never get to hold the new baby, when it came. He hoped they didn’t name it after him. They should name it after someone smarter, someone who survived. Like Nat.

Nat. God. He’d promised her, he’d promised—and now he—

A plasma beam came so close to his head he smelled burning hair, his face peppered with stinging chips of stone. If he didn’t get a move on they would have him. Clint slammed a clip into his pistol and reached into the bag, his heart sinking when he felt nothing there. This was really it, then; six rounds, and then oblivion. But he’d made them pay for it.

_(I’m sorry, Barney, I’m sorry, Nat, I didn’t mean for this to happen.)_

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he leapt to his feet, head and shoulders popping up above the stone, and fired.

BANG. Trooper, through the neck.

BANG. One of the skittering bug-looking ones; exploded into goo.

BANG. BANG. One of the red-armored ones, the leader of the pod.

BANG. One of the mind-fuckers, right between those creepy big eyes.

He ducked back down, crouched behind the stone. There were three more in sight, too far away for the pistol to reach but closing on his position fast. He only had one more bullet.

They usually killed everyone, when they attacked, but sometimes they took prisoners, especially people who had held out a long time. Nobody knew what happened to the ones they took; Clint had never heard of one getting away. Maybe they killed them, once they’d tortured all their intel out. Maybe they used them as slave labor, or as lab rats to experiment on. Maybe they turned them into… something else.

The pod was nearly in range. He could take one of them, maybe. Fight the rest with his knife if they got close enough. Force them to kill him rather than take him away.

He could make sure they _couldn’t_ take him away.

He wished he could have seen Nat one more time. He’d have hugged her hard, for all she acted like she was too old for it now, hugged her and told her how proud of her he was. How proud he’d always been.

He started to raise the pistol and the world went white.

                                                                                                    

Something was touching him.

Clint’s hand closed around empty air where he’d been clutching his pistol, so he flung himself at the attacker, his hands sliding over armor plate as he tried to find a throat. He shoved down the flash of disappointment that they hadn’t ended it while he was mercifully unconscious. That wasn’t for him, the easy death; he’d always known that. He’d go down snarling and snapping like the cornered dog he was, and maybe he could take one more of them down before they got tired of the game and shot him in the head. 

He was flash-blind—couldn’t see a thing but shapes, bulky and big and all around him—but he didn’t need to see clear to fight, and didn’t have to win to help. Ten seconds spent subduing Clint was ten seconds they weren’t sweeping the camp, after all. Ten seconds of distraction for someone to run.

Clint could do anything for ten seconds.

The alien was strong, whatever kind it was, and a lot more flexible than it should have been. Clint couldn’t seem to keep a hold of it. There was hubbub around him, shouting he didn’t understand, and why hadn’t they killed him yet?

“Clint!” a heart-stoppingly familiar voice bellowed, so near to him that he could feel breath on his cheek; enough for him to hear, finally. “Budapest!” 

He froze, his fingers still hooked into the seam of a pauldron. His guts lurched, relief and disbelief and hope making him near-sick. “…Nat?” 

He couldn’t hear himself, couldn’t tell if he was talking loud or soft, but his voice scraped out of his throat as he spoke, and hot tears burned his currently—please only currently—useless eyes as a small, strong hand slipped into his and squeezed it in a familiar pattern; their all-clear signal, then O-K in Morse code.

He started to shake. She was alive, she was alive, but _how?_ Clint could still smell the fire, he’d seen the MECs, they’d come in heavy on the north side where she’d been patrolling. So how was she here, dusting pulverized tombstone out of his hair like a tiny grandma?

“Nat, who—how—” he trailed off, not even sure what to ask. They were the only Resistance cell in a hundred miles; nobody would have come to help them. There was nobody _to_ come. Their own cell had all been at the settlement, too, a rare day of downtime with no missions ongoing, so there hadn’t even been a field team who could have come back unexpectedly. And Clint had seen—he’d seen the bodies, too many bodies. When the alarm had sounded, the people who were supposed to evacuate would have, the kids and anyone who was too old or sick to fight, but everyone else would have gone for their weapons, tried to keep the aliens busy while the others slipped away. There was no way there were enough of them still left alive to take out two pods and a MEC, even with Natasha leading the charge.

Besides which, no Resistance op he knew had armor like the kind he was currently—oops—still holding on to. He forced himself to let go, still half sure he’d get killed as soon as he did, but nothing happened. The—person? They were with Nat, they had to be a person—wearing the armor just let Clint go—gradually, like they were making sure he wouldn’t fall over—and stepped away, their shape receding into the blur.

Nat started tapping the back of his hand, more Morse code since his ears were too fucked to hear and his eyes too fucked to see. F-R-I-E-N-D-S, Nat spelled. She paused, then, her hand trembling a little, tapped again. X-C-O-M.

“Bullshit,” Clint said, too surprised to hold it back. 

XCOM was gone, long gone, everyone knew that. The leaders of Earth had hardly given their own defense force a chance to win; just a few months into the war, they’d decided it was better to surrender to the alien invaders than to try to fight them off. Clint had only been a kid, then, but he’d never forget the sick dawning horror of it, huddling with Barney around the TV and watching as the news had stopped reporting on the humans’ heroic fight against the invasion and started talking about _treaties_ and _peace_ and a _new unified government_ , stopped talking about _alien experimentation_ and started hyping _the gifts of the Elders_. It had been less than twelve hours after the so-called “Unification Day” when they’d started reporting on the “anti-terror task forces” that were going after “fringe elements.”

It hadn’t taken the aliens long to obliterate XCOM, not when their own leaders had sold them out. The first Unification Day parade, Clint and Barney had headed out of town, looking for a way to continue the fight, and found the still-forming Resistance.

“Bullshit,” Clint said again. “There ain’t been XCOM for twenty years; they got wiped out after the surrender.” XCOM was a fairy tale by now, something you brought up the recruits on stories of, fallen heroes that you drank to and fought in memory of. Nat could as well have said a wizard flew down from the sky and magicked the aliens away. “They’re all gone.”

H-I-D-I-N-G, she replied. S-E-C-R-E-T.

He wanted to believe it, he did. XCOM was a legend in Resistance circles, the ones who’d gone before. Not just that, but they’d been real soldiers, with real scientists and engineers, real equipment and transport; they’d had a real chance to win, drive the aliens away for good. 

But it had been twenty years since then, and if XCOM was still around, what had they been doing all this time while humans were fighting and dying and getting _changed?_ If XCOM wasn’t dead, why had they abandoned their mission?

C-O-M-E, Natasha spelled. S-A-F-E. T-A-L-K-L-A-T-E-R.

There wasn’t really any other choice; he trusted her. He’d trusted her since the first time he’d seen her, the last survivor of her camp, scrawny and feral and sticky with alien blood and ready to put her knife in him if he’d tried any funny business. She was his family; he’d have kissed an ADVENT trooper right on the helmet if she told him it was the right thing to do.

He held her hand and followed where she led, across the unsteady ground and up a ramp—metal, by the feel of it—and sat when she pushed him down into a seat, letting himself be strapped in. A transport of some kind; he could feel the metal floor shaking with heavy steps, the vehicle shifting as bulky shapes came aboard. Armored troops, Clint thought, as impossible as that seemed. He was starting to go numb, the physical and emotional shock catching up with him now that he wasn’t fighting for his life. They settled into seats, and Clint saw the indistinct red glow of the burning settlement vanish as the hatch closed and they lifted vertically into the air. It hurt, leaving, knowing what had happened, but the ache was distant for now. He just hurt too many places in too many ways for any one of them to win out. 

Clint thought he might pass out soon, the way his head was swimming. He thought that if he was a little bit less out of it, he’d probably be panicking.

He clung to Nat’s hand, trying to will his vision to return. He could hear the muffled sounds of speech, but couldn’t tell much more than that their tone wasn’t angry or threatening. That was something, anyway. Nat was the best judge of threat he’d ever known; if she wasn’t worried there wasn’t cause to worry, at least not yet.

Someone got up from across the aisle and moved toward him, and he flinched back, pressing himself into the seat, and then flinched forward again at the nauseating pain of the wound on his shoulders. “What do you want?” he demanded, probably too loud.

Nat squeezed his hand reassuringly before tapping out M-E-D-I-C. W-H-E-R-E-H-U-R-T?

“I’m okay, Nat,” he said.

She squeezed his hand again, but sharp; the handholding equivalent of a “tsk” of displeasure.

B-L-O-O-D.

“Grazes,” he said. “Stone chips, splinters. And I caught the edge of a plasma beam across my back, but you know that don’t bleed.” The alien weapons weren’t ballistic, was the thing. A shot from a plasma beam didn’t puncture you; it literally seared away a channel of flesh, excruciatingly painful and hard to heal. Fight too long in the Resistance, and even if you lived, your body started filling up with pits and hollows.

He felt Nat’s shoulder heave with a sigh where she was pressed against him, then she reached over and unfastened his harness, tugging him forward; she wanted him to show his back to the medic, Clint thought.

He sighed—what could you even do about a wound like that in the field? He’d honestly prefer to only have to have it treated once; it hurt like a bastard to have plasma burns cleaned, but they got infected real easy so you had to do it. He pushed back a nauseating memory involving tweezers and a lighter and a bottle of rotgut vodka. 

“If you insist,” he grumbled, and turned.

He felt Nat’s nails dig into his arm for a moment when she saw his back; he’d been on the ground after it happened, so it was probably filthy. Great. That was going to make this even more fun. He hoped the medic wasn’t going to try to do much here in the transport.

He heard the rumble of a voice, and then Nat took his hand again. T-O-P-O-F-F.

“Aw, shirt,” he said, but moved stiffly to undo the buttons. He hadn’t even been wearing armor, but work clothes, and the flannel shirt was stiff with blood and mud and ash. He winced as the movement pulled at his back, hissing through his teeth. He’d been able to push through the pain before on stubbornness and adrenaline, but he’d stiffened up quickly once he stopped moving and now anything that pulled on his back was agonizing. 

Nat took his hands and gently pushed them down to his sides, then proceeded to unbutton him. She paused, he heard more indistinct voices, then she tapped S-T-U-C-K. C-U-T-T-I-N-G.

He sighed. “If you have to,” he said, and then he tried not to tense as the form—things were a little less blurry, now, and he was pretty sure the medic was wearing red and white armor—moved around behind him. Soon, he felt the cool metal of a pair of bandage scissors against his skin as the medic cut most of the shirt away, leaving just the charred edge that was probably either melted to him or stuck to him; either way, they’d want to be on the ground before they dealt with it. 

He felt a cold mist, spreading blessed numbness over the line of fire across his shoulder blades, and nearly toppled over as the pain started ebbing away. A medkit, but a better one than he’d ever used. The medic gave the numbing agent a few seconds to kick in, then Clint could distantly feel pressure as he applied a bulky bandage over the whole area. Hopefully, the heavy medicines from the kit would be enough to hold off infection until they could clean it out proper; he wasn’t looking forward to the painful work of limbering up the scar tissue enough to keep full mobility in his shoulders as it healed, but he wanted to make sure he’d still _have_ shoulders.

Someone draped a blanket around him, and Nat pushed him gently back to his seat. He was lightheaded and sick from the dregs of adrenaline and woozy from the sudden lack of pain. He went meekly, curling his fingers in hers again and letting her tuck the ends of the blanket around his bare chest. As long as she was there, he knew he was okay. 

He was sleepy—okay, he was about to drop from exhaustion and shock—but he almost didn’t want to let himself sleep. It felt too nice, holding Natasha’s hand and being safe and not hurting and knowing she was safe and probably not hurting either, because the big red and white medic-blur would have taken care of her too, if she’d needed it. 

There were no aliens here. There weren’t going to be any. They were okay. He slumped in the harness and let himself drift.

He roused at the bump when the transport landed, and went weak with relief when he opened his eyes to find his vision back to almost normal. He looked over at Nat, desperate to check on her, see for himself how she was doing. She was half turned, talking quietly with someone on her other side. Her face was clean, though the rest of her was streaked with dirt and ash and smeared with orange blood. She had a few small visible bandages and a few more minor scrapes, each one surrounded by a patch of clean skin. The neat braid she’d been wearing that morning was half down, yanked askew with little curls pulled out and clinging damply all around her face and neck. But she looked good, all in all. Safe, mostly unhurt. Seeing it was like setting down a hundred-pound pack.

He squeezed the hand he was still holding, and she whirled to face him. He met her eyes, and she grinned at him in relief when he flashed her a thumbs-up with his free hand.

Satisfied that Nat was fine, Clint looked around the transport, wanting to see their rescuers for himself. They were wearing proper military armor, though they didn’t all match, and were all painted in different colors and designs; Clint guessed there wasn’t much call for a uniform code in the alien apocalypse. Despite its unusual appearance, the equipment was all well-maintained and good quality, the XCOM insignia prominently displayed on chests and shoulders. It was surreal to see, like he’d just been rescued by a bunch of people wearing, like, Jedi robes and carrying lightsabers. Like something fictional come to life.

A big blond was sitting directly across from Clint, wearing the heavily reinforced gear of an explosives expert; his nameplate said ROGERS, though Clint couldn’t read the rank insignia. On his left was the medic, who smiled at Clint encouragingly over his red-and-white armor: WILSON. On Rogers’ other side was a tall woman with a long brown ponytail and a beautiful sniper rifle at her feet, her armor royal blue and white; CARTER. At the end of the row, a man with a shaved head and an eyepatch leaned against the wall, regarding them all with a keen expression; FURY, his nameplate said, though Clint wasn’t entirely sure that was anyone’s real name.

Natasha was still on Clint’s left side, and there was an empty seat to his right. In the seat next to that was the last man, his armor an inky dark blue accented with silver and something sticking up above his shoulder that Clint was 90% sure was a sword hilt. His hair was close-cropped and dark, and he had a jawline that could have made him a movie star, if the aliens had spared Hollywood; COULSON.

He turned his head and caught Clint staring, and his mouth quirked in a little smile. It transformed his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that made him look warm and kind. His eyes, Clint couldn’t help but notice, were a very pretty shade of blue.

It’d been a while since Clint noticed anybody’s eyes. He wasn’t sure what it meant that he was noticing now.

He didn’t bother pretending he hadn’t been looking, just gave the guy a dorky little wave and smile. “Hey,” he said, mostly to Coulson, but then turned to include the rest of the squad. “So, hey, thanks for rescuing me. Us. I owe you all a drink whenever I get my tech squared away so I can actually have a conversation.” If they were on the up and up, hey, new friends. If they were shady, well, it couldn’t hurt to ingratiate himself a little.

Nat must have given them the brief on Clint’s shitty hearing, because they didn’t try to speak to him, but he got a range of reactions going from a nod of acknowledgement from Fury to a broad grin and a thumbs-up from Rogers; he looked at Coulson last, for reasons he couldn’t quite pin down, and was startled when the man shot him a small, warm smile and then raised his gauntleted hands to sign, _happy to help you. Welcome._ He was obviously out of practice, and it wasn’t exactly easy to sign wearing full armor, but Clint could tell what he meant. He instinctively started to raise his own hands to reply, then stopped as the pull of the bandage reminded him why it was a bad idea to do much with his arms just then. He smiled at Coulson, hoping he didn’t look as addled as he felt.

_Talk later?_ Coulson signed, and Clint nodded. He followed them all down the ramp and off the transport, letting Nat steer him where they needed him to go. They were inside something cavernous and metal that vibrated oddly through the soles of Clint’s feet; it didn’t feel like a base, it felt like it was moving. Had XCOM gotten hold of an aircraft carrier somewhere? Seemed like it would be hard to hide something like that.

Wilson peeled off from the group, leading Clint and Natasha in a different direction from the others. As they passed through rooms and corridors, Clint realized that the truth about their location was something even stranger than he’d first thought. The walls and rooms were weird, shining with that dull oily sheen that the alien alloys had, and Clint could see things that spoke of damages and repairs; piles of rubble, places where obviously-human splice jobs patched a wire or cable. 

It wasn’t a carrier at all, he realized as he followed Wilson into a lift that operated with a strange reverb that Clint could feel in his teeth. XCOM had somehow gotten hold of and retrofitted one of the aliens’ own ships and was using it as a mobile base, right under their noses.

Well. Under the place where humans had noses.

Clint had _so many questions_. How had they done it? How long had they had it? Why hadn’t they been _using_ it before now? If XCOM was really back, what had they been waiting for?

They passed through a door into what was obviously the infirmary; the odd alien walls were lined with reassuringly human hospital beds, a few of which were occupied. Clint glanced around, curious, and let out a startled noise when he realized he recognized some of the people in the room.

“Doc!” he cried, way too loud, then felt his face heat as all three white-coated doctors in the room turned to face him. “Um,” he said, but was saved by Doc Hilliard, reclining on one of the beds with an IV in her arm, looking scratched up and dirty and exhausted but alive. She waved at him, a broad smile creasing her face. 

“Clint!” she signed and said at the same time. “I’m so glad to see you.” He couldn’t hear her well enough to distinguish the words, but she was great at keeping her mouth visible and enunciating when she spoke to him. He hadn’t ever learned why she was so good at communicating with someone who couldn’t hear much; she’d looked so sad the one time he’d asked that he’d backed off and not raised the issue since.

“You made it,” he said, blinking his stinging eyes as he looked around the room and realized that nearly everyone in the beds was someone he recognized. While he’d been engaging the MECs, XCOM had saved them, had saved Natasha and Doc Hilliard and her patients, and a scattering of others besides. “Is this—did they—” he gestured around the room as best he could, somehow unable to make himself say the words.

“They only took the injured with them,” she said. “They sent a second squad to help the other survivors relocate. They’re in contact with several other cells that could use reinforcements.” She looked at him, understanding. “I’ll send you the roster,” she said, her face gentle. “It’s a lot better than I’d feared.” 

His knees wobbled with relief. “Good. That’s—I thought everyone was. You know.”

She nodded. “And what about you? Are you okay?”

“Eh, you know me, Doc,” he said, almost shrugging before he remembered how much it would hurt to move his shoulders. “I’m always okay.” 

“Clint.” He didn’t need to hear her to notice her impatience; it came through in the sharp way her hands moved, signing his name.

He sighed. “Plasma graze,” he admitted.

She winced. 

“Don’t worry, Doc, I bet they got some serious meds on this thing,” Clint said, trying to be encouraging. He knew Doc Hilliard had always felt terrible that she couldn’t do more for plasma burns, but without the sort of regeneration tech you only saw in the cities, they’d always been limited.

“Yes,” she said. “So let them treat you now.” She nodded to Clint’s right, where he could see one of the XCOM doctors, conferring with the medic—Wilson—who had brought him in.

He tipped her a jaunty salute, then followed Wilson’s gestures to one of the beds.

Working through Natasha and Doc Hilliard, the doctor—whose name badge said SIMMONS—explained what they needed to do: the wound needed to be cleaned and properly seen to, but a) XCOM actually had what they needed to safely numb him up all the way for the procedure and b) they had some kind of wacky stolen ADVENT tech that would apparently regenerate the cauterized tissue, if Clint was okay with it.

Clint was approximately ten million percent okay with it, not just because it would save him a lot of pain (hey, he was only stoic when he had no other choice; he didn’t like to suffer) but because the regen tech would mean he could heal fast—incredibly fast, a matter of a few days—and get back in the field with little to no impairment. It was the sort of miracle he hadn’t expected to ever see again. He wasn’t sure exactly what was ahead for him; he didn’t know if he had it in him to go to another cell, build it up and wait for ADVENT to tear it down again, and maybe not get so lucky as he did today. But he couldn’t stop fighting, not until the aliens were gone and their collaborators out of power.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Let’s do it.” He reached for Natasha while they bustled around with bags and tools and equipment, taking comfort in her small, strong hand in his. 

“I’ll stay with you,” she promised him, “I’ll stay the whole time.” It was an echo of the words he’d said to her when he’d first brought her home, coaxing her to go see Doc Hilliard. He chuckled, a little rusty, and she smiled; and then a needle stung in the crook of his elbow and he sank into gentle oblivion.

                                                                                                    

He woke several times, but didn’t retain much memory in between. He vaguely remembered seeing Nat, and Doc Hilliard, and the little XCOM doctor, and someone in armor that he thought looked familiar, but he didn’t know why they had been there or what they had said. He didn’t much care, though. He just wanted to sleep.

Finally, Clint didn’t know how many wakings later, he opened his eyes and didn’t immediately want to close them again.

It was hard to tell what time it was, since the infirmary was in the interior of the ship and there weren’t exactly windows, but the level of activity seemed distinctly day-ish. He turned his head toward a flicker of motion in his peripheral vision and blinked, still too tired to feel more than mild surprise. Natasha was sitting cross-legged on top of the bed next to Clint’s, holding what looked like an animated and friendly conversation with the handsome XCOM soldier who had signed with Clint on the transport. Clint watched them for a moment, feeling something inside him relax at seeing Nat looking comfortable and happy; she didn’t usually warm to strangers like that, and every time she had, the person had become a friend. From her gestures, Clint thought she was talking about that time they’d accidentally blundered into a patrol while on a supply run and had to fight off two ADVENT troopers with sacks of canned goods, a hoe, and a camping hatchet.

Nat glanced over and caught Clint’s eye. She jumped up immediately and put herself squarely in Clint’s line of sight while calling something over her shoulder. _Wait,_ she signed, and then the XCOM doctor—Simmons, that was her name—came over to Clint’s bed, holding out a small case. He took it, returning her smile with a tentative one of his own; Natasha was practically bouncing on her heels in excitement, so it couldn’t be anything bad. Clint opened it, and his heart skipped in his chest; it was hearing aids, the kind of tiny, in-ear field aids that Clint hadn’t seen in years. Nobody in the Resistance could get their hands on that kind of tech, or maintain it if they found it, and in the cities anyone who needed one would get shunted to one of the ADVENT “gene therapy” clinics instead of getting any sort of prosthetic.

Clint wasn’t sure what sort of “therapy” resulted in so many of its patients never being heard from again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

He shot a questioning look at Nat. She nodded, grinning at him. Clint wasn’t sure why XCOM had even shown up at Independence Ridge, or what they were expecting in return for the medical care. Why would they outfit a stranger with this level of tech? Maybe they weren’t for him to keep; maybe they just wanted to make it easier to communicate while Clint was on their ship. Maybe he could find something to barter for them, work it off. He could splice a mean cable if they didn’t need any more snipers. He’d done well enough, once his old aids started failing, but it would make his life a lot easier to have working aids again. He almost didn’t want to use them—it would suck to have them and have to give them up when he left—but Natasha and the doctor were both looking at him excitedly, so he gave in to their big eyes and expectant expressions.

His hands trembled a little as he lifted the tiny aids and fit them into his ears. They fit remarkably well, like they’d been molded for him, settling down comfortably so that he could hardly feel they were there. There was a slim remote tucked into the lid of the case; he pressed the button to turn the aids on and looked up at the doctor. “Can you talk for a minute so I can calibrate these?”

She nodded, and he started adjusting the settings; these were a lot more complex than anything he’d used in recent memory, but he managed fairly quickly to bring things into a useful range.

“—but of course we’ll need to run a full panel to get them fully set up for you, Mr. Barton,” Dr. Simmons was saying, and he drew in a sharp breath; he hadn’t heard anyone that clearly in a hell of a long time. He thought they were better than his old ones had been brand new.

“Thank you,” Clint said, fighting for composure. He needed to get ahold of himself before he offered to work off the cost of the aids scrubbing bedpans or something. “I think I’m good for the time being. I can understand you, anyway.” 

She beamed at him, pushing a strand of brown hair behind her ear. “How are you feeling?” she asked. “Any pain?”

He rolled his shoulders, sighing in relief when nothing hurt. “I feel great,” he said. “God, I wish we’d had this tech back home; my 2027 would have gone a lot differently.” He’d had to heal a plasma burn the old-fashioned way; he never wanted to do _that_ again.

She bit her lip. “I’m sorry we took so long to reach you,” she said. “We’ve been cobbling together a communications network, but it’s still a bit hit and miss if we hear about the raids in time to help.”

“No, hey, it’s all right,” Clint said. “We’re just glad you showed up at all. I thought we’d be wiped out entirely; anybody you got outta there is a gift, you know?” It was easy to lose yourself in what-ifs, but he knew that most cells that got raided got wiped out completely. Regardless of what they’d been doing before, if XCOM was saving anyone now, they were all coming out ahead.

He wondered if maybe they had any open saving-people positions. 

The doctor’s expression eased. “I agree,” she said. “I—well, let’s just say that I’m not wholly unfamiliar with the sentiment, myself.” She looked down at the tablet she held in her hand, swiping through screens. “I’ll want to do a more complete evaluation later, and walk you through a full calibration process for the hearing aids, but for now I’ll leave you to talk to the lieutenant.” She gestured at the soldier, and when Clint looked over at him he gave a dorky little wave; it was oddly charming, especially since the movement made the sleeves of his shirt strain visibly to contain his biceps.

“Hi,” the soldier said. “I’m Lieutenant Phil Coulson with the Extraterrestrial Combat Unit, but you can call me Phil. Welcome to the _Avenger_.” He stuck out his hand for Clint to shake; he had a good grip, firm and friendly, his hand warm and slightly rough from calluses. Clint felt a little zing from the touch that would likely have been a lot more pronounced if he wasn’t fresh out of who-knew-how-many days of unconsciousness, and it made something in his chest ache. It had been years since he’d noticed anyone that way; he’d been mourning his breakup with Bobbi, and then Barney had gotten hurt, and then Barney had left, and Natasha had needed him, the Resistance had needed him.

Maybe, he thought. Maybe things had turned around. Maybe there was a little space now for Clint to let himself need things, too.

“Clint Barton,” he replied, letting himself appreciate the sparkle in Phil’s eyes and the spread of his shoulders, letting his voice warm. “Call me Clint. It’s nice to meet you, Phil.”

“Likewise,” Phil said. “I mean, well, we already technically met? But you were kind of—”he made an awkward gesture at his face that could possibly have been the sign for “good-looking” but given the circumstances was more likely meant to indicate “flash-blind, deaf, and trying to punch me.”

“Ah.” Clint cleared his throat. “Yeah, sorry about that. I don’t know what happened exactly, but I hope I didn’t hurt anyone before Nat was able to get through to me.”

“ _You_ broke a finger punching his armor,” Nat chimed in. She was back on the neighboring bed, sitting cross-legged and watching them with bright, amused eyes. “Jemma fixed it while you were out. _He’s_ fine. Plus it was his fault you couldn’t see him, anyway.”

“Um, I’m pretty sure it was the aliens’ fault,” Clint said. 

Phil cleared his throat. The tips of his ears had gone pink. “Actually,” he said. “The flash-blindness was me. There were two troopers closing on your position and I only had one shot left in my clip; I had to use a concussion grenade. I tried to throw it down where it would catch them both and miss you, but it rolled a little.”

“He’s very sorry about that,” Nat said. “I told him it was fine, it’s not like it hurt you permanently, but he’s spent all morning doing grenade training in the sim room anyway.”

Clint blinked, feeling surprisingly gratified to hear it. Of course, it likely wasn’t anything to do with Clint, just a conscientious soldier wanting to keep improving his skills, but… still. He shot a narrow-eyed look at Nat, wondering why she seemed so eager for him to like Phil. She rolled her eyes at him and signed quickly behind Phil’s back: _Live a little, Clint. He’s cool._

Well. Okay then.

“Way I figure it,” he told Phil, “a little flash-blindness and some bruises is a good price to pay for not being dead or worse. I think I still come out of this owing you.”

“I know how you can pay me back,” Phil said, then went bright red. “Um. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

Oh _ho_. This was getting interesting. Clint leaned back deliberately against the propped-up head of his hospital bed, arching his back in a stretch, and watched Phil’s eyes drop to his chest—bare save for the bandages—before he visibly forced himself to look back at Clint’s face.

“Well,” Clint drawled, giving Phil a reciprocal look, letting himself linger appreciatively on the curves of thick muscle and the angles of his face. The collar of Phil’s shirt was open, and Clint wanted to trace the tendons in his throat. “I hate to be in debt, Phil, so why don’t you tell me what you have in mind.”

Phil’s flush deepened, and Clint just barely managed to stop himself from reaching out to lay a hand on his cheek, to feel if it was hot. (It was possible that he was still feeling euphoric from the tissue regeneration, but he didn’t feel impaired, just… happy. The way Phil was looking at him felt electric, made his skin tingle. He felt anticipatory, _alive_ , in a way he’d forgotten he could.)

“Well,” Phil said. “ _Now_ I have something _else_ in mind, but originally I wanted to talk to you—to both of you—about recruitment.”

“Huh.” Clint sat up, his attention sharpening, and he looked over at Nat, who was watching their byplay with sparkling eyes. “You interested in talking about recruitment, Nat?”

She tipped her head. “I might be. Independence Ridge is gone; the survivors are all splitting up to other cells. Our only practical choice if we want to keep fighting—”

“Which we do,” Clint said. Not since the day he’d met her, a scrawny slip of a thing with blood on her teeth and fire in her eyes, had she ever wanted to stop fighting the invasion.

“Which we do,” she agreed, “are to either pick a new cell, or join up with someone else. And XCOM has a lot to recommend it.” 

“Case in point, me,” Clint agreed. “I was expecting to be rehabbing that burn for weeks if not months, and as far as I can tell I’m good as new in, what, couple days?”

“Three and a half,” Nat agreed. They looked at each other for a moment. It had to be unanimous, that was their deal; it had always been their deal, from the very beginning. Clint wasn’t her dad, and he wasn’t really her brother, but he kind of was, all the same, and she was his ward and his best friend and his ops partner and his _family_ , and until she said different, Clint wouldn’t leave her. 

She’d tested him, over the years. Fought with him and yelled at him and tried to drive him off, but she’d never asked him to leave; even when things were hardest, he could always see the fear in her eyes that this would be the time he’d go. But he never had, and he never would.

He wanted to give XCOM a shot, not just because of Phil, but because with access to their resources Clint’s work could make a difference again. He thought, from the way she’d been acting, that Nat probably felt the same way.

Clint raised his eyebrows a little: _wanna go for it?_

She nodded, just a tiny tilt of her chin, and Clint turned back to Phil, who was standing patiently, watching them with a little smile.

“Okay, then,” Clint said. “My sister and I would like to hear your offer, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you,” Phil said. He shifted a little, straightened his shoulders, and suddenly Clint was looking at a recruitment poster come to life instead of the soft-eyed, sweetly dorky guy who’d just been flirting with him.

Clint would be lying if he said the transition did anything to dampen the attraction. Honestly, if anything, the opposite was true.

_Get you a man who can do both,_ a wicked little voice whispered in his brain, and he bit his lip to keep from snickering.

“When XCOM was able to recover this ship, it opened up a lot of opportunities,” Phil said. “We can deploy worldwide in a matter of hours, and the lab facilities have enabled us to make some real progress against the aliens. Unfortunately, we’re too shorthanded on our strike teams to cover all the ground we’d like to, which means we’ve embarked on a recruitment drive.”

“Okay, that all makes sense,” Clint said. “But I gotta ask, where have you guys _been_ all this time? Is this the same XCOM as before, or did some Resistance cell find an equipment cache, or what? If XCOM wasn’t dead, why did you let things get this bad?”

Phil nodded, his expression serious. “Those are great questions,” he said. “You aren’t cleared to know everything yet, but I’ll tell you what I can.” He took a deep breath. “There was a key mission, twenty years ago. If it had succeeded, XCOM would have driven the aliens off Earth. Unfortunately, the mission failed, and the whole squad—including the Commander—were assumed KIA. The Council surrendered pretty much immediately after that.”

“Shit,” Clint said. He’d had no idea; well, he supposed he wouldn’t have. He wondered what the last twenty years would have been like, had that last desperate mission succeeded. 

“So what happened then?” Natasha asked, leaning forward. She’d been a baby when the aliens came; XCOM had never been anything but a story to her.

“They ordered XCOM to surrender,” Phil said. “I’m sure you can imagine how well that went over.”

Clint snorted. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and say badly.”

Phil nodded, wry. “To say the least. From what I’ve heard, the attack came fast and hit hard, but Command had made contingency plans and activated them as soon as the surrender orders came through. They weren’t able to save everything, or even most of it, but Central—sorry, that’s Colonel Bradford, he commands the _Avenger_ —made it out, and Dr. Chen, a few others. They had to lie low—they were on every most wanted list in the world—but Central found the Resistance pretty much immediately and started working to rebuild. Most of the senior officers who weren’t with XCOM before served with him there. It took years to find the ship and get it working, but once they had, Central turned his Resistance cell into the seeds of the new XCOM. We’ve been building as fast as we can ever since, and, well, here we are.”

“Okay,” Clint said, exchanging looks with Natasha. “I can’t say it wouldn’t have helped to have you guys in play a lot sooner, but…”

“At least you’re in play now,” she finished. “And, if I don’t mistake my guess, gearing up for a big push on ADVENT?”

“Exactly,” Phil said. “Command recently recovered some key intel that puts us in a position to seriously interfere with ADVENT’s plans; we just need to staff up enough to actually run the missions.”

“I like the sound of that,” Clint said. “So. Tell me about this recruitment drive.”

Phil’s expression brightened, his shoulders straightening again. “We’re splitting up most of our existing strike teams; as recruits come on board we’ll be making new teams, with a mix of veterans and new recruits on each,” Phil said. “I, ah,” he ducked his head a little, a grin creasing his cheek. “I’m going to be promoted soon, and they’re giving me field lead for Strike Team Delta. I’ve got a few people in mind—some recruits I’ve been training—but they’re still new, so I needed to fill out the roster with experienced soldiers.” He nodded at them. “From what I’ve seen, your skill sets would be a natural fit.”

“How big is the team?” Nat asked. “And what skills do you already have?”

“Full size is six people, though occasionally we’ll run a mission with less or bring someone extra. I focus on close-quarters combat, and I’ve got a medic, a combat hacker, and a grenadier. I’m hoping you two can provide infiltration and range.”

Clint and Nat exchanged impressed looks. It was a good skill mix for a team that size; it had been a long time since they’d had the luxury of working with a field medic, let alone someone who could hack the automated surveillance towers and MECs the aliens liked to use.

“Of course, if it turns out that Delta isn’t a good fit for you, you’d be free to take a place on another team,” Phil continued. “But I hope you’ll give us a chance; I think we could do great things together.” 

Clint grinned at him, letting his expression imply the double-entendre he’d like to make at that comment, and Phil blushed again.

One day, Clint promised himself, he was gonna make Phil blush like that, and then he was gonna see how far down it went and if it tasted the same the whole way.

Assuming Phil was into that, of course.

“It does sound like a promising roster,” Nat said. Phil blinked in surprise, like he’d forgotten what they’d been talking about for a minute, then smoothed his expression and turned toward her politely.

“Of course,” she continued, “we’ll want to see how the team works out in the field, but I’m definitely interested in giving it a try.”

“We’ll do team exercises in the sim room before we’re field-cleared,” Phil said. He looked hopefully over at Clint. “What do you think?”

Clint… wasn’t honestly sure what he thought, not completely. It all sounded good—hell, it all sounded too good to be real—but part of him couldn’t believe it was going to stick. Even setting aside Phil himself, with his blushes and his biceps and the way he seemed to wake up parts of Clint that’d been sleeping for years, this offer was everything he could have wanted for himself and Nat; a secure base, a strong team, amazing medical care, intel and equipment. The chance to make things happen. Maybe even the chance to end the war for good.

How could he possibly let himself believe it was all going to work out? But then again, how could he possibly not take the opportunity while it was on offer?

That was it, really. Maybe it would all be a disaster in the end, but Clint’s life was more or less a disaster just now anyway. There was no reason not to try.

“I’m with Nat,” he said. “We’ll try it out, see how things go.” Once he said it, a knot of tension unfurled in his back, and he felt a rush of relief that might possibly have not been unrelated to the instant, radiant smile that dawned over Phil’s face.

“I do have one more question before I sign on,” he said, cocking a teasing eyebrow at Phil and letting himself smirk a little.

“I’ll do the best I can to answer it,” Phil said, not quite hiding all the eagerness in his tone.

“You’re gonna be leading our team, right?”

“Right,” Phil said. He sounded like he was wondering whether Clint thought that was a benefit or a drawback of the offer.

“So does XCOM have any rules about, you know, _fraternization_ within the ranks?” He grinned at Phil while Natasha groaned. “Because if so, I may need to do some contract negotiation.”

“I, ah. No,” Phil said, looking a little flustered. “Provided everything is consensual, we’re free to conduct our personal relationships as we choose. There’s zero tolerance for harassment, of course,” he added hastily. “If we—um, if people want to engage in a cross-rank relationship, there’s a process to make sure everything’s as it should be.” He cleared his throat, looking down at his shoes for a moment before looking back up at Clint. It was adorable, really. Clint winked at him, and was delighted when he got a shy smile in return.

“In that case, let’s make it official,” Clint said. “XCOM, here we come.”

“Me as well,” Nat said. “Minus the caveats; no offense, Phil.”

“None taken,” he assured her, and she beamed at them both, looking well pleased. Clint smiled back at her, but then found his gaze sliding sideways. Phil had freckles, Clint noticed, just dusting the tops of his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. Clint wondered if he ever got any sun on his chest or arms, if they got freckled too. When he glanced up to Phil’s face again, he caught Phil looking back.

“You are both ridiculous,” Natasha said, interrupting Clint’s reverie. She stood and leaned over to ruffle his hair. “I knew you’d hit it off. Now I’m going down to Engineering; Maria says Dr. Shen says she’s got some new shotguns to test today.”

“Tell Lily you’re going to be joining us, and ask her to show you the arc sword prototype,” Phil said. “That one should be about ready for testing soon, too.”

Her eyes lit up. “Arc sword. Arc as in electricity?”

“Something like that,” Phil said. “I’m not a hundred percent sure on the details.”

“Thanks!” she said, jumping off the bed and making for the exit. “Bye, Clint, bye, Phil, I’ll see you later.” 

“Bye,” Clint said to her rapidly retreating back.

“Wow,” Phil said. “She really likes electricity.”

“Oh man, you have no idea,” Clint told him. “She rigged up these stun gauntlets one time—it was amazing.”

“Maybe she can work with our engineers to come up with something similar,” Phil said. “We all pitch in where we can around here.”

“I like that,” Clint said. “It’s good for people, you know? Feeling a part of something.”

“Yeah,” Phil agreed. “Like we have a real chance again.”

They were quiet for a long moment, thoughtful. Clint hardly remembered what it had been like before the war, for all he’d been a teenager when it had happened; twenty years was a long time to fight.

“So,” Clint said at last. He leaned back in his bed again, letting his limbs sprawl out in what he hoped was an enticing way. “Lieutenant Coulson’s offer was good, but I got the feeling Phil might have an offer in mind too. I’d love to hear what it is.”

Phil looked over at him, surprise shading quickly into a small, pleased smile. “With the understanding that no part of the previous offer will be affected by whatever you decide,” he said, “I’d love to buy you a drink once you get out of here. There’s a bar on board, next to the armory.”

“That sounds completely safe and not at all likely to lead to something happening that will afterward only be known as ‘The Incident,’” Clint told him. “I’m in.”

Phil laughed, bright and sudden, his expression surprised and happy. “In for the drink or for The Incident?” he asked, his eyes sparkling.

“Yes,” Clint told him solemnly, though he could feel an answering grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“In that case, I’ll get Jemma—Dr. Simmons—to finish up with you so we can go,” Phil told him. “And I’ll give you the tour of the _Avenger_.”

“It’s a good name,” Clint said. “Homey.”

“I’ve always thought so.” 

A chime sounded over a loudspeaker. “Lieutenant Coulson to the bridge,” a pleasant voice said.

“Duty calls,” Clint said ruefully. “I’ll see you later?”

“Count on it,” Phil told him. He hovered for a moment, looking at Clint and shifting his weight like he wanted to do something but wasn’t sure it would be welcome. Clint reached out a hand to him, and when Phil took it he turned the handshake into more of a hand-hold, squeezing a little.

“C’mere,” he said, and tugged Phil’s hand until he bent down. Clint brushed a light kiss over his cheekbone; the skin was fine-grained and warm under his lips, and he couldn’t wait to explore further.

“Go do your thing,” he told Phil, “and I’ll do mine, and then we’ll see what kind of trouble we can get up to.”

Phil grinned at him. “Aye aye,” he said, and then darted in for his own cheek kiss before hurrying out of the infirmary with a spring in his step. Since they had a date scheduled and had sort of kissed and all, Clint didn’t feel guilty about checking out his ass as he left. Sometimes Clint was really glad it was his hearing that was shitty and not his vision, and this was one of those times.

He stretched luxuriously, enjoying the lack of pain at the movement, and settled back against the pillow to wait for Dr. Simmons. For the first time in longer than he cared to remember, his immediate future seemed full of good things. He was healed, and not in pain; he had a safe place to sleep for himself and Nat; he had a team again, trained and equipped for the fight; he had a future, and a mission, and a chance. And then there was Phil, with kindness in his eyes and mischief in his grin, with his strong arms and deft hands and _interest_ ; Clint felt like a dried-up plant coming to life under his attentions. Clint couldn’t wait to get to know him better, to have time and space and safety to tease and flirt and play; unimaginable luxury. For the first time in years, Clint had things to look forward to that didn’t involve anybody shooting at anyone else, and he planned on enjoying every minute of anticipation. He’d join Strike Team Delta and run training sims and remember how to work on a team again. He’d use the new hearing aids and enjoy getting to know his new squadmates with relative ease. He’d send Nat for playdates to R&D, and help her refine ever more terrifying field gear. Maybe XCOM’d use their contacts to help him connect with Barney, let him know they were okay. He’d go have a drink with Phil, and then maybe more; he’d poke around the ship and learn all the places you could steal a moment of privacy. And then maybe, if they were very lucky, they’d win the war, and then he’d have a whole life ahead of him to do something other than fight and survive.

He was determined to enjoy every minute.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! To answer the question you are probably asking, yes, there may someday be one or more sequels to this story, and no, I don't know when. Basically the sequels would be a lot less about the fight against the aliens and more about Clint and Phil finding out of the way places on the Avenger to make out, so. Fair warning. :)
> 
> Also the bar is absolutely next to the Armory in the game and it cracks me up.


End file.
